


Day Two

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl





	Day Two

The next morning, Castiel can hear Dean before he sees him. The sneeze has been augmented by a hoarse cough and Castiel winces in sympathy as he turns on the kettle and pulls the honey down from over the sink.

‘Morning.’ Dean tries to pull himself straighter as he comes into the kitchen, but nothing is going to disguise the dark circles under his eyes or make his hair look any less omnidirectional. Whatever he sleeps in, he’s pulled his t-shirt and jeans of the day before back on although he’s barefoot now. ‘Your bedroom is really nice.’

Castiel feels his eyes go wide and he turns to fill the kettle needlessly fuller before Dean can see, too. ‘I am glad you slept well. Are you feeling better?’

A round of coughing answers him and he puts the kettle on the stove, lights the burner, and turns back. 

Dean takes a deep breath and, apparently through pure will, stops coughing. He goes red in the face and smiles awkwardly at Castiel, then gasps to get his breath back. ‘Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can.’

Reflexively, Castiel runs a hand through his own hair, as if it would somehow comb Dean’s into something approaching order. ‘I would not like you to make yourself seriously ill.’

‘Yeah, but you don’t want to get my cold, remember?’ Dean pushes himself to his feet. ‘Can I help with...anything?’

‘You can sit there.’ Castiel almost reaches out to push him back into the chair, then remembers his bullet-point list of the night before, and shoves his hand back in his cardigan pocket. ‘What would you like?’

Dean shrugs, sinking back into the chair. ‘Whatever you’ve got. What’s it look like outside?’ He rises to his feet again and pads across to the kitchen window. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Dean’s face fall as he sees the steady drenching drizzle outside and hear the muttered, ‘Shit’ before Dean lets the blind fall with a rattle and turns away. ‘How far is Allston again?’

‘I can drive--’

Dean waves the suggestion away before Castiel can even finish. ‘Man, I can walk. Just...get me a map and--’ He makes an arrow out of finger and thumb. ‘...point me in the right direction.’ The cheerful insouciance of the comment is somewhat marred by another spasmodic bout of coughing that leaves Dean red in the face again.

‘How about we start--’ Castiel says firmly, taking Dean by the shoulders and steering him back to the chair. ‘With a phone call.’ 

He gets the cordless from the other room and fishes the scrap of paper Jack had written the phone number for the garage down on out of his jacket pocket. Silently congratulating himself for having the foresight to get the number, he goes back into the kitchen and plants both items on the table beside Dean’s elbow. Dean looks up, eyes a little watery, and blinks at him.

Castiel gestures at the phone. ‘Call the garage. Inquire about your car. If it is repaired, perhaps they can meet you with it.’ _Or I will drive you to it._

‘Oh. Yeah, right.’ A little slowly, Dean picks up the phone and dials.

Castiel only gets half the conversation but he guesses from the increasingly tense set of Dean’s shoulders and the tucked-back look of the corners of his mouth -- and _how_ , exactly, has Cas become so familiar with the facial expressions of someone who is, he keeps reminding himself, essentially a stranger? -- that it is not going well. 

‘...yeah, yeah, okay. Thanks -- yeah, I’ll call back.’ Dean clicks off the phone and sets it down carefully before saying, ‘Well, shit.’

‘It is not repaired?’ Castiel pours hot water over a teabag and carries it over to the table.

Dean runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Thanks -- no, no, it’s not. Looks like you better point me to that Holiday Inn instead.’

Castiel frowns as he turns back to the stove. ‘That would not be necessary--’

‘Look, they don’t know how long it’s going to take and--’

‘What is wrong with your car?’ Castiel turns back with his own mug of tea and leans back against the counter beside the stove.

Dean rubs a hand back over his hair again, making it stand on end even more. ‘Everything.’ He scowls and shrugs. ‘Things’ve been practically falling off it for months; I kept it going with duct tape and baling wire but...’ He shrugs again and grins at Cas rather weakly. ‘Looks like the wire broke.’ 

‘Do they... have the parts you need at the garage?’ Castiel hazards the question.

‘Are you kidding?’ Dean looks up, momentarily incredulous, then shakes his head. ‘No, no, sorry -- I’m -- no, they don’t. It’s... The car’s vintage. It’s gonna...take some time. The guy said he thought he knew someone who might have some of the parts I need but he’s gonna have to call the guy, then there’s how much he wants, and---shit.’ Dean sags back in his chair.

‘Dean, I do not mind if you stay here.’

‘But I can’t...’ Dean bites his lower lip hard, then continues more slowly: ‘Look, replacing all this... in a new car, it’d be pricey. In mine... Christ knows what it’s gonna run me.’

Castiel shrugs. ‘Then we will come to some alternate arrangement.’

Dean’s eyes are wide for a moment, then his face shuts down and he stands up, radiating tension. ‘Look, man, I _told_ you--’

‘Oh -- no! No, no--’ Castiel puts down his mug so hastily the hot liquid slops onto his hand. He shakes his fingers briskly, waving the other hand in negation. ‘No-- That is not--’ What sort of life does this man _lead_ that this is the first conclusion he reaches? He sucks at the worst of the burned spot and adds, a little indistinctly: ‘That is not what I meant.’

‘No?’ Dean’s eyes are still wary and he stays standing, one hand on the table.

‘I was thinking...perhaps you would be willing to...run some errands for me. Or...’ Castiel casts around desperately. ‘Clean Nellie’s litterbox? Perhaps help me with some cooking. I have -- what is so funny?’

From barely controlled anger, Dean has gone over to helpless laughter mixed with harsh coughing. He collapses back into the chair and throws his head back, laughing so hard he gets out of breath and has to gasp for air through coughs.

‘Dean--’ Castiel fills a glass with water and brings it across but Dean is shaking his head, waving his hands, the laughter subsiding into snorts.

‘Sorry...Sorry, Cas, I just...I...sorry. Yeah, sure, any of that -- shopping, litterbox, whatever. You tell me, I’ll do it.’ He wipes his eyes and takes a sip of water, then adds, ‘Well, ...’ Their eyes meet and Castiel can feel himself flushing again and, not for the first time, curses his fair skin.

For a brief moment, though, Dean doesn’t seem repulsed or angry -- his eyes are steady and Castiel could swear the corners of his mouth are tilting up.

Then he shrugs, takes another sip of water, and finishes, ‘Within reason, anyway.’

* * *

By the end of the morning, though, it’s obvious to anyone that the task Dean is most suited for is holding down the cushions on Castiel’s couch.

Despite Castiel’s earnest dissuasion, Dean had dug out the shopping bags, goaded him into updating the grocery list, and disappeared into the misty rain.

Castiel spent most of the time Dean was gone trying to convince himself to work, sitting down, and finding that, after five minutes or so, he was doing nothing more than look at the same paragraph again and again and failing to come to any conclusion about it. All he could picture was Dean, like some nineteenth century orphan in a melodrama, trudging up the long, unfamiliar street between here and the grocery store, head bowed against the rain, cold mist steadily soaking him--

When Dean came back, he was wet through, the mist having turned into a drenching rain. He ignored Castiel’s repeated attempts to make him leave the bags in the kitchen, the food on the counter, or the packages on the table and insisted -- largely by dint of remaining in stubborn silence broken by coughing -- in putting away everything he had purchased. 

Eventually, Castiel got tired of watching him and took matters into his own hands by grabbing Dean’s shoulders and forcibly steering him out of the kitchen, into the living room, and onto the couch.

‘Hey, I said...’ The rest of Dean’s protest was lost in a coughing fit. 

Castiel waits patiently, perching on the edge of the low coffee table. When Dean stops hacking and can take a steady breath again, he says, ‘Dean, I have had very few sexual relationships in my life but I can assure you they were all consensual and did not involve monetary transactions.’

Dean’s eyes go wide and Castiel thinks he’s off on another coughing fit. Before he can either cough or speak, though, Castiel hurries through the rest of his ill-prepared speech: ‘You are under no compulsion to tell me why this continues to be of concern to you, but I will repeat what I have said as many times as is necessary for you to believe it.’ God, he sounds like his worst nightmares of a high-school English teacher: he sounds like _himself_ during a dreadful stint of substitute teaching.

Dean swallows a cough and says hoarsely, ‘Where the fuck did that come from?’

Castiel sighs and leans back, supporting himself on one hand. ‘You have mentioned your...anxiety several times. Either explicitly or implicitly. I thought perhaps...I could reassure you.’

‘Dude, I don’t think you’re tryin’ to roll me.’ 

Castiel is surprised at how much that feels like reassurance. ‘Good. I am not.’

‘If you _were...’_

Castiel groans, pressing the heel of his free hand to the bridge of his nose. ‘Can we pretend, for the moment, that you believe I am not!’ A prick of conscience drives him to add: ‘There was one time that involved a bet.’

Dean’s eyes spark green with humor and he asks, ‘You win?’

Castiel nods, feels a wry smile twist his mouth. ‘Yes.’

The humor dies away, leaving Dean’s face still and sober. He leans back against the couch cushions, propping one arm along the back. ‘You enjoy it?’

‘No.’ Castiel shakes his head, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t even remember it clearly. There are just impressions: the taste of soap in his mouth, water up his nose, the feeling of choking tightness in his chest, and the echoing yells in his ears. He doesn’t like thinking about it particularly and shakes his head now to clear the thoughts.

‘Boarding school not all fun and games, huh?’

Dean is still watching him and, this time, does not look away when Castiel glances up at him. Castiel shakes his head again, slowly. ‘No. Did you think it would be?’

Dean shrugs. ‘Can’t say I ever thought about it much.’

‘What was your school like?’ Castiel leans back, bracing himself on his hands behind his hips on the table. He tells himself firmly that he is imagining that Dean’s eyes flicker quickly over him. Nevertheless, the suggestion makes his skin prickle.

Dean shrugs again. ‘’Bout like normal, I imagine. Boring and pointless.’

‘It must have been hard if you were moving around with your parents.’

‘Just my dad. Mom...got sick of it.’

‘I am sorry.’

A corner of Dean’s mouth twitches up. ‘Why?’

Castiel blinks. ‘I...imagine it must have been...painful for you.’

Dean glances at his own arm stretched along the back of the couch and drums his fingers thoughtfully on a cushion. ‘It was worse when she was there -- she and dad fought all the time.’

‘Then I am sorry for that.’

Whatever Dean might be about to say next is lost in another harsh bout of coughing that leaves him doubled over and red in the face. He finally gasps in a long breath and pushes himself back to sitting but 

Castiel can see the faint tremor in his muscles from holding himself up. Dean swallows hard, chokes back a last cough, and rubs a hand over his watering eyes. ‘Sorry...sorry ‘bout that. So--’ He claps his hands on his knees. ‘What’s next? Litter box?’ He waves at the windows and the rain still pounding down outside. ‘Guess you don’t need me to wash the windows.’

‘No.’ Castiel pushes himself to his feet. ‘I need you to do something very important for me.’

‘’Kay.’ Dean goes to stand up and Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him where he is. Dean looks up at him and, just for a second, Castiel can see the shadow of suspicion in the back of those amber green eyes.

‘I need you to look after my couch for me.’

‘You...what?’ Dean looks at the furniture he’s sitting on, then back at Castiel. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing. I need you to stay on it to make sure nothing happens to it.’

‘Cas, I--’ Then the penny drops and Dean raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Seriously? C’mon, that’s ridiculous--’

‘You said within reason.’ Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. ‘I believe that staying on the couch for the afternoon is well within reason.’

‘Cas--’

‘Why do you call me that?’ The question comes out without his meaning it to.

‘Why-- what?’

‘Cas. Why do you call me that?’

‘I...’ Dean blinks. ‘Sorry, I didn’t...it just...I can stop if you--’

‘No. No, I do not mind, it just... No-one has called me that before.’

‘If it’s a problem, I--’

Castiel shakes his head hurriedly. The last thing he wants is for Dean to stop saying it. Plenty of people have pointed out to him the oddness of his full name; this shortened version is...pleasant. He likes the sound of it. The small voice in the back of his mind, the one querying whether he would like it in any voice but Dean’s, he firmly ignores. ‘No. Please do not...I mean, it is not a problem.’

‘Okay.’ Dean is still watching him and Castiel takes a step back, towards the kitchen, fumbling for the next thing to say.

‘I...am going to make some lunch. Do you want anything?’

‘Whatever you’re having. I guess my job is to stay here?’ Dean sits back against the couch cushions, stretching his arms out along the back. Once again, he looks ridiculously relaxed against the cushions, head cocked slightly at an angle so he can see Castiel, and, dear God, Castiel can see the thin material of his grey t-shirt pulling against--

‘Yes. Exactly.’ Castiel flees to the kitchen before he can say -- or see -- anything else.

* * *

After lunch, Dean falls asleep so quickly that he forgets to protest Castiel’s new assignment any further.

Nellie jumps up beside him, sniffs at him, mews quietly once or twice, then curls up to sleep by his feet. 

Castiel cleans up lunch and goes back to work at his desk, this time managing to concentrate. The rain continues steadily and, after an hour or so when Dean shows no sign of waking up, Cas streams music on his laptop, enough to keep himself from falling asleep too.

In mid-afternoon, as the natural light begins to fade, Castiel reaches to turn on his desk lamp and a tight muscle pulls in his shoulder. Yawning, he stretches, arching over the back of his chair and then twisting from side to side, grabbing the chair arm to anchor himself. The room has gotten a little chill and he stands up to turn on the space heater by the end of the couch. 

Dean is still asleep, one arm crooked under his head, the other lax along his side. Nellie, too, is coiled neatly by his feet, a paw over her nose, snoring gently. When she hears Castiel moving around, one eye cracks open and she stares at him for a minute, decides he isn’t doing anything interesting, snuffles into her paw, and goes back to sleep.

Castiel studies Dean for a minute, faintly glad that now there is no chance for that steady green gaze to disconcert him. There’s a high flush on Dean’s cheeks and Castiel makes a mental note to see what he has by way of fever medicine. He moves very slightly now and then, his eyelids flickering and his free hand twitching. His breathing hitches as Castiel watches and he stifles a cough without waking up.

He’s still asleep when Castiel brings cups of tea back into the living room.

‘Dean -- Dean, wake up.’ Castiel touches his shoulder a little gingerly. Dean comes awake so swiftly that Castiel nearly falls onto the coffee table. 

‘Whoa!’ Dean grabs his hand, yanking him back into balance before Castiel can do anything except register that Dean’s skin is _warm_ and the clasp of his fingers is surprisingly strong. ‘Don’t lose it in your own living room, Cas.’

‘What? I -- no, no --’ Castiel stutters and pulls his hand free before he can think about how little he wants to do that. Lose it? What does that _mean?_ It has been less than two days and this entire situation is already approaching the worst crush he can remember having in high school.

That alone acts like a splash of cold water and he takes a step back around the coffee table. ‘I...I made you some tea. You were coughing in your sleep.’

‘Thanks.’ Dean pushes himself to sitting, then groans and drops his head in his hands. ‘Shit. I _hate_ colds.’

‘I know of no-one who likes them.’ Castiel sits in his favorite of the two armchairs and picks up his cup, wrapping his fingers around it to stop the shaking from showing. ‘Perhaps not going for a walk in the rain this morning would have helped?’

Dean pulls a face at him and picks up his mug. ‘Very fuckin’ funny.’

‘It was completely unnecessary--’

‘Dude, you look like a strong wind would blow you away.’ Dean puffs on the ends of his fingers and wafts them through the air to demonstrate. 

‘Whereas you are clearly made of steel,’ Castiel snorts.

‘Hey!’ Dean thumps his chest, puffing it out like a pigeon. ‘S’not so bad.’

Castiel takes a long swallow of burning hot tea and has to wait for his tongue to stop hurting before he can speak. ‘Colds do not respect musculature.’

‘And groceries don’t just appear in kitchens.’

‘Drink your tea.’

Dean grins into his cup but does as Castiel suggests.

The room is quiet, the only sound Nellie’s quiet wheezing into her paw and the occasional tap of wind-blown rain against the window. Castiel takes the rest of his cup of tea somewhat slower, giving his scalded tongue time to recover and keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his own knees. Nevertheless, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean shifting position on the couch, stretching his legs out with apparent relief.

‘I have some work to finish this afternoon but -- perhaps later you would like to...watch a movie?’ 

‘Sure. Didn’t know you had a TV in here.’ Dean glances around the room.

‘I--’ _Shit._ Castiel rarely swore but this seemed required for the occasion.

He did have a TV.

In his bedroom.

_Jesus fucking cocksucking shit._

‘Somethin’ wrong, Cas?’ Dean is looking at him curiously, a slight crook to his mouth suggesting that something Castiel is doing is funny.

‘No -- no. I -- yes, I have a television. I... I keep it in my bedroom.’ Castiel winces as he says it, anticipating that Dean’s face will close down again and some excuse will come up and the offer will be rejected.

Instead, Dean snorts with laughter. ‘Jesus, you should see your face.’

‘I _do,_ I really-- I did not mean it as -- I mean, I really -- it’s the most convenient--’ Dean waves a hand at him but Castiel can’t stop himself from stumbling on. ‘I get insomnia and I -- it is just --’

‘Cas -- Cas -- it’s fine. A movie sounds great. I’ll -- just try not to sneeze a lot.’

* * *

In fact, Dean insists on ensconcing himself on the floor, surrounding himself with the cushions from the couch and the comforter from his bed.

A little awkwardly, Castiel perches on his own bed, uncomfortably aware of his feet close to Dean’s shoulders and the dark blond head where normally only Nellie curls up. 

There’s a moment of silence as Castiel considers the wisdom of simply smothering himself with a pillow right here and now before he can get tired or get comfortable and, inevitably, do something cripplingly embarrassing.

‘So...what’re we watchin’?’ Dean twists around, crumpled tissue in one hand, the other stretched along the foot of Castiel’s bed. Castiel can just see the place where throat turns into shoulder and his fingers itch to reach out and smooth under the rough t-shirt cotton.

 _Your shoulders,_ Castiel thinks helplessly. ‘I...all my movies are...here.’ He kneels up and pushes open the closet door. When he had moved in, it had been a perfectly normal closet for clothes: almost all empty space with a bar across the top. Castiel was proud of his refitting job. His clothes still occupy the hanging bar and a broad shelf above, but most of the rest of the space is taken up with shelves that house an impressive number of DVDs and his years-old collection of VHS tapes.

‘Whoa.’ Dean blinks and pushes himself up so he’s balancing on the balls of his feet. Nellie, who had been cuddling next to him in a nest of comforter and pillow, mews discontentedly and jumps onto the bed, giving Dean a disgusted look. She pads out a space by Castiel’s hip instead.

‘That’s...quite the collection, Cas.’

Castiel shrugs, sinking back against his bastion of pillows. ‘I...like stories.’

‘And you get insomnia.’ Dean glances back at him and Castiel nods.

‘Sometimes. I’ve had trouble sleeping since I was a teenager.’

‘Sleeping pills?’

Castiel grimaces. ‘I hate them. They make me feel like I’ve been drinking.’

Dean’s eyebrow shoots up and his mouth quirks. ‘You don’t drink?’

‘If I’m going to wake up with a hangover, I prefer to have done the drinking to earn it.’ Castiel waves a hand at the shelves. ‘You choose.’

* * *

Castiel thinks he really should have guessed Dean would go straight for the remake of _Gone in 60 Seconds._ He never expected it to become an educational experience, but Dean simply can’t keep his mouth shut about the cars.

Castiel’s unasked questions stack up: _did your father teach you about cars? why do you know so much about them? did you work in a garage? your hands have scars and stains on them; what are they from? why did you come to Boston to go to California?_

By the end of the movie, Castiel is sprawled on his stomach, chin on the backs of his hands propped on a pillow and Dean is half-twisted back to him, explaining some fine point of the accelerative properties of the ‘67 Mustang Nicolas Cage is busily engaged in destroying on-screen. 

‘So what you’re telling me is that the movie is one big wet dream for car fanatics?’ Castiel says, half-laughing, as the credits roll, propping his chin on one hand.

‘Somethin’ like that. So --’ Dean turns around, mouth twisted in a half-smile and eyes bright. ‘--why do _you_ have it?’

‘I...what?’ Castiel’s brain stutters and, for a second or two, all he can think is that Dean’s mouth looks soft and it’s only a few inches away and he wonders if the green-eyed man would taste like the honeyed tea he has been drinking all evening. ‘I...like the music.’

The other corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up and, _God,_ if he only meant what Castiel wishes he meant by that smile. ‘You like the music? Dude, _no-one_ gets that movie for a couple of good songs.’

Castiel has to swallow a time or two before he is sure his voice will work without giving him away. ‘I like the story. I like the camaraderie in the group. I _do_ like the music and I...’ Dean’s smile is unnerving him and his thoughts are scattering. He does not _quite_ feel that he is being made fun of, but he is also not quite sure why Dean is still looking at him. ‘It is...fun to watch.’

Dean explodes with laughter, dropping his head on the back of his forearm and Castiel watches him in puzzlement. ‘What did I say?’

Dean looks up, eyes bright with laughter and, entirely to Castiel’s surprise, reaches out and catches his shoulder, shaking him slightly. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to say it!’

‘Say -- what? That I like the movie?’

‘That you like it because it’s stupid and it’s fun.’

Castiel can feel himself blushing and at least half of it is because Dean’s hand is still on his arm, a warm, solid weight he can feel through the sleeve of his shirt. ‘It is not _stupid_ just because it is...simple.’ Dean snorts. ‘It is not, Dean. If it is, then why do you like it?’

The humor dies out of Dean’s eyes as though a switch has been thrown and he lets go of Castiel’s arm. ‘Maybe ‘m not that bright.’ Even his voice changes, dropping a register, and turning into something like the slur of a reluctant pupil.

Castiel frowns at him. ‘That is clearly untrue.’

‘Clearly?’

 _Now_ he is being mocked -- and not entirely kindly. ‘Dean, you are _clearly_ not a stupid man. And fun does not have to be stupid.’

‘Okay, your turn then...’ Dean falls back against his cushions, throwing an arm out at the wall of videos. ‘Show me something that’s fun and not stupid.’

* * *

About twenty minutes into _Sunshine_ \-- an under-rated film, in Castiel’s opinion -- Dean starts to shift about, readjusting pillows and comforter until he has constructed himself a narrow pallet of cushions to lie on. 

Castiel sits up and studies him for a minute. ‘Dean.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Dean cranes his head back, blinking a little sleepily.

‘Why do you not come up here? You would be more comfortable.’ Castiel is conscious, not for the first time in his life, of speaking past a catch in his throat.

‘Thought you said you didn’t want a cold.’

‘I believe it is most likely inevitable at this point.’ 

Dean grunts and, for a minute, Castiel thinks his offer has been refused. He is just debating whether he feels more disappointment or relief when the comforter is hurled up onto the bed beside him in a tangled heap and Dean follows it, groaning a little as he stands.

Castiel shifts a little to one side, giving Dean a generous half of the bed. He pulls Nellie with him, ignoring her sleepy indignant protest and re-settling her down by his feet. She head-butts Castiel’s ankle once or twice just to make her feelings on the subject clear, then promptly falls asleep again nuzzled into the arch of his foot. 

Dean sits on the comforter, eyes Castiel’s pillows for a minute, then shrugs and bends forward, stretching off the end of the bed, and yanks two of his own off the floor. 

Castiel glues his eyes to the screen where Chris Evans and Cillian Murphy are engaging in “manly” apologies and does not let himself look away until he can tell by sound that Dean has shifted himself under the comforter and against the pillows and should be covered more or less head to toe.

A quick sideways glance reassures him that, yes, this in fact the case. It also tells him that, no, it has not made things any easier. 

Dean looks ridiculously comfortable with the quilt tucked around his legs and under his arms. He has one foot propped on top of the other -- Castiel can tell from the shape of the mound at the end of the bed -- and is watching the movie intently. His fingers are fiddling with a loose thread on the comforter cover, winding the thread around one thumb, then the first finger, then the second-- Castiel can see the light scatter of hair over the back of his hand and the faint flush of blood coming up beneath the constricted skin.

 _Christ._ Castiel wrenches his eyes back to the screen, wretchedly aware that once _again_ he has been staring at his _guest_ as though he were a pin-up. 

‘Hey, Cas.’

‘Yes, Dean.’

‘You always twitch like this when you’re watchin’ a movie?’

Castiel closes his eyes and curses as inventively as he knows how. ‘I was...just getting comfortable.’

Dean nods equably, still watching the movie. ‘Need me to move? Don’t want to hog your bed.’

‘No, no. You are...fine where you are.’ _Just wonderful, in fact. Please stay longer. And, if you have no objection, could we perhaps lose the comforter? and your jeans?_ Castiel grits his teeth, willing himself to remember that he has known Dean for less than _three_ days and that this has _never_ been his pattern in relationships and he has _never_ done one-night stands and this is certainly not the time to start. 

By the time he has counselled himself sternly into something closer to calm and more similar to self-control and opened his eyes again, things are rapidly going downhill on-screen, Nellie is snoring against the side of his foot, and Dean appears to have fallen into a doze.

Castiel takes in the last fact in a quick glance at first then returns his attention to the screen. He loves the scene with the captain on the hull of the ship, facing the light of the sun. There is something about the combination of the visuals and the music and the man’s inability to explain what he sees-- 

Castiel can _always_ explain what he sees. It is part of his job to explain what he sees. The concept of having something be absolutely inexplicable fascinates him. What would it be like to be unable to explain what you see?

When the scene is over, he glances down at Dean again and thinks, dimly, that perhaps he knows what that would be like after all.

Dean has slumped down against one of his pillows, his chin nearly touching his shoulder, his muscles relaxed and his face slightly slack. One hand is open on the comforter, the loose thread in the palm. The other is tucked behind his head and his nose is almost brushing his elbow.

Castiel reaches down to wake him, suggest that he move to his own bed -- but does not complete the gesture. Instead, slowly, carefully, he eases himself down under his own blanket, pulling it up gently over his hips, cautious enough that even Nellie does not wake up.

He returns his attention to the movie rather than continuing to catalog Dean -- _scatter of freckles: wonder if they’re all over? (don’t think about that.) small scar next to left eye: childhood accident?_ The movie is a favorite but he also tells himself sternly that staring at a sleeping man is a very small step away from outright molestation.

* * *

When Castiel wakes up, the TV is showing him the menu from _Sunshine_ and he scrabbles for the remote on his bedside table and manages to find the power button. The screen goes dark, the room with it, and he hears a faint noise of protest from beside him. He freezes for a second before he remembers. ‘Dean -- Dean, wake up.’

‘Mmmff.’ 

‘Dean, you fell asleep.’

‘Hmmf.’ There is the rustle of cloth moving and Castiel nearly yelps when fingers touch his hip. A fingertip pokes him once, twice, then Dean makes a vague grunting noise and the hand retreats. ‘Dean, you should go to bed.’

‘’m in bed.’

‘Dean--’

‘’s’where you wanted me.’ The hand comes back, tapping firmly on Castiel’s forearm this time. ‘’n don’t try t’lie ‘bout it.’

Castiel swallows, swallows again, feeling faintly lightheaded. ‘I...Dean...’ He clutches onto the sheets, presses his hands into the mattress, tries to find anything that will ground him and let him get out of this with some semblance of dignity and an unbroken nose. 

‘Go t’sleep.’ Dean coughs, the sound half-smothered in arm or pillow. ‘’S’late.’

‘I...’ Castiel stares wildly into the darkness. ‘I am so...so sorry, I did not mean to -- for you -- I --’

‘Shu’ up. Y’r gonna make me feel bad.’ The hand pulls on his arm and, unprepared, Castiel falls back against his pillows. ‘I don’ mind...’ Dean is interrupted by a huge yawn and Castiel can hear, and dimly see, him readjust himself against the pillows. His hand pats Castiel’s shoulder, then disappears. ‘Talk about it...in th’ mornin’.’

* * *

In the morning, Dean is gone.


End file.
